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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMEEICA. 



BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 



" S A U L." 
"THE IMAGE OF AIR," 

AND 

OTHER POEMS. 

THE MIRROR OF A MIND." 



" The author has chosen for the theme of this poem the end of the life 
of Saul. . . . The poem throughout is not only of powerful interest, but is 
of high literary merit." — Boston Home Joiirnal. 

" A new view of Saul finds expression in Mr. Logan's dramatic poem. 
The plot is ingeniously carried out, while the tragic and superstitious ele- 
ments that enter into its composition afford a wide field for the imagination 
of the poet." — Providence Journal. 

"The poem has very perfect form ; its characters are well drawn, and 
its situations are well taken and effective." — Boston Globe. 

" In the evil days on which we have fallen, to recommend a book for its 
simplicity is no faint praise. This is not the highest merit of Mr. Logan's 
verses, but it is the first which strikes a brain and ear wearied with the jar 
and jangle of modern minstrelsy. . . . The ' Mirror' reflects the phases of a 
mind too deeply imbued with sadness, but as free from the violence, cyni- 
cism, and paradox of which we have had so much, as the phrase is free 
from exaggeration and obscurity." — T/te JVation. 

" The descriptive power is wonderful, rich in coloring and yet didactic." 
— Newark A dvertiser. 

" Mr. Algernon Sydney Logan, whose poem entitled the ' Mirror of a 
Mind' received such a remarkably warm reception from the critics a couple 
of years ago, has just published a new volume through J. B. Lippincott 
Company. In Mr. Logan's second volume we find much more to admire 
than in his first. There is a straightforward simplicity about Mr. Logan's 
verse that we admire. He seems to have something to say, and he says it 
— his words are plain, honest, English words, and we like them." — New 
York Herald. 

" Saul." i2mo. Cloth $i.oo 

"A Feather from the World's NA^ing." i2mo. Cloth, i.oo 

Sent postpaid, on receipt of price, by 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, 

715 AND 717 MaRKKT StRKKT, 

PHILADELPHIA. 



A FEATHER 



FROM THE WORLD'S WING. 



A MODERN ROMANCE. 



BY K 

ALGERNON SYDNEY LOGAN, 

AUTHOR OF "the MIRROR OF A MIND," " THE IMAGE OF AIR," " SAUL," ETC. 




PHILADELPHIA: 

J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY 
1885. 






Copyright, 1885, by ALGERNON SYDNEY LOGAN. 




PREFACE, 



He who should see in the present book a passion- 
ate appeal in favor of any particular opinion or set 
of opinions would not read it aright. The time for 
passionate appeals has passed away. Their clang 
has become unpleasant to our sensitive ears. 

Modern machinery is much more noiseless than 
that in use fifty years ago. The same is true of the 
machinery of the modern mind. Our intellectual 
mills are grinding up old beliefs, opinions, customs, 
with a speed which few of us would wish to accel- 
erate ; but there is neither clash nor jar. Many 
even fairly cultivated people scarcely perceive the 
process. 

To preach in verse against tyranny, though more 



4 PRE FA CE. 

pardonable, is fully as inartistic as to preach in favor 
of it; and the following composition would attempt, 
no matter how feebly, to be a work of art, and not 
an emancipatory sermon. The province of Art is 
portrayal rather' than discussion, and my endeavor 
has been to portray a phase of our modern existence 
which, I believe, has not been hitherto intentionally 
depicted. This I would call — and the name seems 
not unapt — the absolute phase. The germs of it 
are, I believe, in most young persons, taking the 
form of vague aspirations, which the necessities of 
life soon dissipate. Almost all of us, however, have 
known some youth (for extreme youth is the first 
necessity) in whom the mental state I would call 
the absolute had attained a seemingly unnatural de- 
velopment. It is this typical condition I have sought 
to describe. To me it seems one of the most inter- 
esting stages of human life; since, when considered 
in the gross, it is the lash of the steeds of Progress, 
of which our later and wiser phases are the reins. 



PREFACE. 



5 



In examining this epoch we find much to attract 
and much to repel us ; for, as it is the formative 
stage, and as the laws which apply to matter apply 
to mind, we find in this chaotic, inchoate period 
attraction and repulsion the chief forces. And at- 
traction and repulsion are not merely impressions 
created in our own minds by the contemplation of 
this elemental phase : they have their rise and being 
in the state of mind of which we are speaking, and 
act outward upon all things around. What we feel 
is merely the rebound. 

If I have, in any sort, succeeded in delineating 
this absolute phase of life, with its plethora of self- 
sufficiency and its lack of self-confidence, with its 
selfishness and its devotion, its ignorance and wis- 
dom, its absurdity and sublimity, I am satisfied. 

It may, perhaps justly, be said that the long- 
winded monologues are inartistic ; but it should be 
remembered that the period I am attempting to draw 

is not an artistic period, and that to portray it 

I* 



6 PREFACE. 

artistically would be inartistic. I believe the egotis- 
tical monologue to be a very important symptom 
of the absolute phase. 

The question as to the moral tendency of such 
accurate sketching is the old one which divides the 
two schools of Art for art and Art for morals. My 
dictum would not decide it; so that it seems only 
necessary to remind the reader that if all the young 
Edmonds in the world were turned loose at once 
upon society, with full power to force all their crude 
ideas into practice, they would doubtless make more 
or less havoc ; but that in actual life society is let 
loose upon them, and succeeds in taming them 
without the smallest inconvenience to itself, some- 
times, indeed, making of them the chiefest of its 
ornaments. 

Those who regard a romance with a palpable 
moral as little better than a geometrically painted 
picture, will not here feel the want of a moral of 
obtrusive shape and hue ; but there are still many 



PREFACE. 7 

art-loving persons to whom a good, plain, measur- 
able moral is not ungrateful. These may, perhaps, 
find in the catastrophe a sufficient reminder of the 
danger attendant upon quitting well-trodden paths, 
and, indeed, the question, 

" Is it not better, then, to be alone, 

And love Earth only for its earthly sake ?" 

is one to which one may well hesitate before giving 

a reply. 

A. S. L. 

Philadelphia, June 3, 1885. 



A FEATHER 
FROM THE WORLD'S WING. 



CANTO I 



What boots it where these scenes are laid ? 

Suffice it that there are such scenes. 
Why mark the very spot, the blade 

Of grass on which the fancy leans ? 
One common country owns us all, 
Where'er the Western sunbeams fall. 



lO A FEATHER FROM 

The land beneath whose new-turned soil 
The future, like the locust, sleeps. 

Near by, she, mountain-like, doth foil 
The eye by wild unsightly steeps — 

But cross the ocean, would you see 

The whole in its sublimity. 

Who calls her to the coming race ? 

Columbia looks across the sea. 
And meets Britannia's thoughtful face ; 

But green traditions creepingly 
Have round her lovely limbs entwined, 
So close they every movement bind. 

Mother of freedom, France! thy child 

Roams homeless still, though thou dost keep 

His image in thy bosom wild — 
I love thee, and with thee I weep, 

Beholding the dull weight of care 

Thy hapless citizen must bear : 



THE WORLD'S WING. u 

Weighed down by weapons, that he may 

Confront his watchful enemy ; 
From books and musings torn away, 

To learn the trade to make men die ; 
Oppressed by prying legislation. 
The bane of every age and nation. 

Still farther on, a darker scene — 
Behold a helmet broad and strong, 

With golden spike and glitt'ring sheen, 
Beneath it crushed a countless throng 

Stifled and cramped, and still oppressed 

By toilsome dreams — they do not rest. 

Gaze over Europe's face, and see 
How man beneath the shadow sits 

Of an ingenious tyranny 

Which shames the very Jesuits — 

See plastic youth its chosen prey. 

Its lesson, " Question not — obey." 



12 A FEATHER FROM 

The sage ball-cartridge forced to learn ; 

Philanthropists the bayonet ; 
The great free-thinker made to turn, 

The puppet of the martinet — 
The grand accomplished end sublime, 
To march mankind to funeral time. 

They say we thijik not (envy-twitched) — 
Perchance 'tis true. But they stand still- 

Our instinct used, and boldly hitched 
To our great wain, outruns their skill. 

Which gives most promise, which is best, 

Unconscious speed, or conscious rest ? 

Columbia, sure thou hast a wing 

To bear thee far above their flight — 

It may seem but a slender thing 

To one who sees not latent might — 

'Tis this — Great Presence, do I err ? 

Tho7( dost not love the lawgiver. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 13 

For thou, aind thou alone, art teaching 
The first great lesson for the free. 

All-comprehensive and all-reaching — 
It is responsibility. 

Compulsion, try, and try again, 

Thou ne'er shalt frame one citizen. 



The snow was banked against the pane, 
Each ivy leaf its burden bore; 

The last flake falling grazed the vane. 
And nestled on the roof; the roar 

Of the old pines was low or loud, 

As ever to the blast they bowed. 

The orb which lights, but never warms, 
Like ship that leaves the land a-lee, 

From forth the towering cliff-like forms 
Of the white clouds drew steadily; 



14 A FEATHER FROM 

Sending pale messengers below 
To glimmer o'er the paler snow. 

A world of white ! the sailing moon, 

The clouds, the universal snow ; 
Fair nature lies as in a swoon, 

Pale, cold, still, beautiful — ah, how 
Can scenes like this of nothingness 
Our thoughts subdue, our hearts oppress? 

'Tis Matter's might which bids us bow 

Before her still supremacy ; 
The only infinite we know. 

Cradle and grave of all we see — 
Hearts quail before the eternal state 
Which decks her power inanimate. 

Wild Tobehanna's hemlock shades, 
Mont Velan's pallid pyramid, 



THE WORLD'S WING. 15 

The boundless plains where blooms and fades 

The prairie rose, and where forbid 
Shadows may dwell not, these all wear 
The self-same strange abstracted air. 



The indifference of one who reigns 

By effortless necessity. 
Whose unapparent might remains 

And moulds the things that live and die, — 
Of one who waits some distant day 
Beyond all thought, far, far away. 



Ye tortured of the earth, who deem 
Your torturers omnipotent, 

Turn to the ocean, lake, the stream, 
The mountain, or the forest bent 

By the free wind — nay, turn, and see 

Their palsied, blind infirmity. 



A FEATHER FROM 

Ye mourners of the heart, who weep 

O'er evanescence and decay, 
O'er mutual vows, which ojic did keep, 

O'er hopes now memories, flesh now clay- 
Seek the inanimate, and cull 
The sole bloom indestructible. 

Ye victims of the mind, who pine 

To impinge upon Futurity, 
Who live beyond the hour, and twine 

Your thoughts with shades of thing to be. 
Who faint beneath the feverish strain 
To fix the phantoms of the brain, 

When daily things of loathly hue 
Rise up between you and your aim. 

And blot the far entrancing view 

With beckoning forms and eager claim — 

To nature turn, and strive to be 

Faint image of her constancy. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Look backward o'er man's trodden path, 
'Tis Matter bounds the horizon ; 

And save that far before he hath 
But shifting clouds to gaze upon, 

Where'er he turns there meets his eye 

A palpable Eternity. 

His life and all it holds most dear, 
Fame, Fortune, and Philosophy, 

The laugh, the jest, the rising tear, 
Calm Friendship's clasp of constancy. 

And lovers' lips that warmly press. 

Brief camp-fires in its wilderness. 

E'en sceptics who deny thy might, 
Great Matter, worship at thy shrine ; 

And journey far by day and night 
To view thy fairest forms divine — 

By instinct is this homage wrung 

From man to that from whence he sprung 

2* 



7 



4 FEATHER FROM 



III. 

In the old armor-groaning times 
Men's life was nearer their ideal, — 

A thick-set man, as shown in rhymes, 
Whose brain alone might be unreal — 

Nay, smile not, for they chased their idol 

With reeking spur and hanging bridle. 

But our ideal is so subtle 

That few men know of its existence, 
Unlike that firm fish called the cuttle, 

Which always needs the teeth's assistance 
Since all men so substantial find it 
That few can eat it absent-minded. 

The school Romantic is no more ; 

The school grotesque, I ween, is fainting ; 



THE WORLD'S WING. 19 

The hand of Fame is still before 

The new name which she now is painting — 
Some letters show — perchance her scrawl 
May read, the intellectual. 

When the world's heart is purer far, 
When the world's eye is doubly clear, 

When thought untrammelled, like a star, 
Above the horizon doth appear, 

Shall Poetry not lift her head, 

And sing the living, not the dead ? 



IV. 



Within behold no chivalry 

Of lords and dames in proud array, 
But just a simple company, 

The fleeting children of to-day, 
Who now must trim in their brief turn 
That lamp which doth forever burn. 



20 A FEATHER FROM 

A sombre hall, despite the blaze ! 

The spirit of the olden time 
Wandered unvanquished ; yet the rays 

Did timidly but glowing climb 
O'er autumn leaves embalmed, and ferns 
And flowers niched in figured urns. 

And to and fro were many straying, 

Absorbed and whispering as they went ; 

While some o'er flowers were delaying ; 
Some formed in noisy groups ; some bent 

With their soft careless modern grace 

O'er cracked wild paintings of the chase. 

Upon a sofa of green leather 

Sat three who figure as examples, 

As neatly clipped and pinned together 
As silks when sent to dames for samples ; 

One bore a look upon his brow 

Which was not mindless, even now. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 21 

His aims were once beyond his powers; 

But disappointment brought contraction, 
Till, aimless now, he filled his hours 

With painful sneers for those in action — 
He turned his feet from side to side, 
And gazed on them with thoughtful pride. 

Two maidens garnished him like truffles, 
And while he gazed, in solemn thought, 

They gazed on him, and through their ruffles 
Some tincture from his musings caught. 

O Reader, if their conversation 

Were served, 'twould prove a cold collation. 

Around them, and above them all, 

There hummed a dull spasmodic sound, — 

As wind-filled mantles rise and fall, 

Now swollen high, now on the ground — 

Anon it ceased — a moment after. 

There came a rattling peal of laughter. 



22 A FEATHER FROM 

Turn whence the sound proceeded most, 
And passing through an open door 

Behold a mingled, motley host 

Of young and old. And still the roar 

Grew louder, as some entrance new 

Found welcome from the nearest i^^^. 

The lights' clear penetrating glow, 
Like to Lycurgus' flowing hair,* 

To all the hideous gave a blow, 
But cast a necklace on the fair, — 

Light universal, overflowing 

All things, and every object showing. 

'Twas a great modern room whose red 
Deep-folded curtains swept the floor. 

* It will be rememl)ered that Lycurgus' reason for causing his 
Spartans to wear long hair was that it made " the ugly more hideous 
and the beautiful more lovely." This idea forms a curious contrast 
to our modern notion of universal handicapping. 



THE WORLUS WING. 

The walls were hiijh and lio;ht, and shed 

The white blaze back again, which bore 
Fresh breath and life to paintings two, 
Hung opposite, one old, one new ; 



For light is pictures' air. The one 
Was a dark, twilight, hemlock scene 

The watery pathway of the cone 

Speeds on beneath the eternal green ; 

Round fallen trees and boulders gleam 

The hoary eddies of the stream. 



And from the torrent, ambered deep 
By mining roots of thousand pines, 

Dark shadows slowly upward creep, 
Commingling as the day declines ; 

But on a distant wooded hill 

Some rear-cruard sunbeams loiter still. 



23 



24 



A FEATHER FROM 

Above a higb, carved mantel, where 

Diana, full of idle grace, 
Reclined with a voluptuous air, 

While swept afar the eager chase, 
There was the likeness of a dame 
Of other days, yet still the same. — 

Not like old portraits ghastly gray, 
Loose hanging upon frescoed walls^ 

Which look as if upon the day 
When died their quaint originals, 

Death swept a shadow o'er their flush. 

Retouching with a colder brush — • 

So clear the light within her eye. 
So free the blood upon her cheek, 

It seemed that she in passing by 

A window had but stopped to speak ; 

So that her snuff-box and quaint dress 

Were startling almost to distress. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 25 

If that old portrait on the wall, 

From her high vantage-ground above, 

Had gazed upon the festival, 

With a time-questioning glance which strove 

To catch the spirit of the host. 

On one her gaze had lingered most. 

He stood amidst the thickest throng, 

And yet the mingling life which streamed 

Its rays upon his being strong 

Was like the light that round him gleamed, 

It could not reach his heart's deep place, 

But flickering played upon his face. 

For that new principle of thought 

Diffused like life through all the rest, 

And yet so widely faintly wrought 
That it in each was scarce confessed, 

Had on his heart condensed, until 

He owned its weight and felt its chill. 
3 



26 A FEATHER FROM 

He bore no tragic look of gloom, 
No cynic's guise, by which despair 

Is made a dead h'fe to assume, 
Becoming an empoisoned air ; 

With interest upon all around 

He turned a gaze close and profound. 

It was as if he deemed mankind. 
Their thousand motives good or ill, 

Were light chips by some sibyl blind 
Commingled, yet related still, 

And he the fragments would compare, 

And form one full mosaic fair. 

He wore the air of over-thought. 

It seemed as if his strong young frame 

Were strained to meet the havoc wrought 
By toiling towards some hidden aim, 

Or slowly tracking skulking truth, 

With endless toil, from earliest youth. 



THE WORLD'S WING. ■ 27 

For one so young, his face was stern, 

His mouth was hard, with sharp-cut lines; 

Yet through the whole a light did burn, 
Even as the firefly dimly shines 

Through an illumined night-closed flower, 

Soft glimmering at the twilight hour. 

There was a something in his eye, 

A sense of distance in its gaze. 
Which daunted near reality, 

And called back scenes of other days — 
Bird-voices, clouds, and woody slopes. 
Entangled with forgotten hopes. 

And yet methinks, if judge I may, — 

Who should not judge, who tell the tale, — 

His look and manner both betray 
A heart too absolute, too frail 

In human sympathies, too prone 

To make its world, and live alone. 



28 A FEATHER FROM 

But now, bent o'er a lady fair, 

With whisper low, he laughed as gay 

As if his every thought were there 
(The vulgar only are distrait) — 

Sudden he turned, and raised his head, 

For some one at his elbow said, — 

" Edmond, she sings to-night." ** Who sings ?' 
" Helen" — the rest was lost; for he 

Who spoke passed on ; the voice, like rings 
Of smoke, which rise distinct and free, 

Was swept away, deprived of form. 

Before the eddying wordy storm. 

Then Edmond turned, with languid air, 

To a young relative near by. 
And asked her if she did not care 

To fashion this celebrity, 
Now formless, in his mind ; she tried 
To look unnettlcd, and replied, — 



THE WORLD'S WING. 29 

" You have not been presented, then, 
To this your hostess' guest, nor knew 

That she was here — if a large wen 
Upon the marble forehead grew 

Of the great statue in the square, 

I doubt if you would even stare. 

" How long she may intend to stay 

None know" — her eye with mischief gleams — 
" You'd better ask her, by the way, 

'Twill keep you from more dangerous themes. — 
She comes from" . . . sudden they both felt 
Their speech into their hearing melt. 

A slowly disentangling sound 

Through the thick voice of that close throng 
Crept softly up, and spread around, 

Unaided, yet wild, clear, and strong ; 
For no accompaniment was there. 
Save the vibration of the air. 



30 A FEATHER FROM 

That sweet ungovernable tone 
Rose up as silvery bubbles rise 

Through heavy waters, till alone 
It filled all ears with paradise. 

With growing confidence she sang — 

This song through sudden stillness rang : 

The moon with her viewless hands, 
Transparent, light, and free. 

Was parting a place 

For her dreamy face 
To gaze on the troubled sea. 

There were bells in wave-washed hands 
Which tolled eternally ; 

There was roar on roar 

Far down the shore. 
And laughter out to sea. 

There were four on the sands to-night, 
Two shadows and two forms — 

Behind and before 

Flew the froth on the shore 
And foam on the land of storms. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Need shadows or shapes more light ? 
O which has the firmer home ? 

Which stabler stuff, 

The moth-like fluff, 
Or the bird-like flying foam ? 

O heart-uniting kiss ! 
O bosoms beating free ! 

O eye-lids wet 

With joy ! and yet — 
The wild bells out to sea ! 

Through the languor of the kiss 
Which wrapped them tenderly 

Came the steady roar 

Far down the shore, 
And the laughter out to sea. 

Her voice's fingers ceased to sweep 
That harp aerial, thousand stringed, 

Viewless and vast, which yet can keep 
No sound, though all by it are winged 

First plaudits came, but no one stirred, 

And then a sudden hush was heard. 



31 



32 A FEATHER FROM 

There was an essence in the tone 
As of a subtle, thought-fed flame, 

By which a ghmmering Hght was thrown 
On their past lives ; till each one came 

To see how far his path had strayed 

From hopes which once his being made. 

Before life's stream above them rolling 

Had turned them round and round and round, 

Their thoughts and wishes all controlling, 
Till by its current they were ground 

To an unvarying shape and hue, 

Cheating the search for beauty new. 

Like paltry mice that gnaw the dead, 

Each sight of the world's power, each sigh 

Of stifled hope or wakened dread, 
Will eat away identity. 

Each day our saliencies doth cull, 

As thorny trees catch flocks of wool. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 33 

There was a something in the tone 

Which made all feel " How sweet to think, — 
To be one instant all alone, 

And seeming into being sink" — 
A moment more, the waves closed in 
With an augmented, boisterous din. 

All felt relieved to be once more 

Upon well-known, well-trodden ground : 

And each bethought him of his store 
Of current pleasantries ; and found 

That, unawares, a thought-immersion 

Had chilled, till then, his self-assertion. 

But unto Edmond, in the tone 

There rang an echo of his thought : 

Although to her who sang unknown, 

Like wind through clouds, there was inwrought 

Throughout a chafing 'gainst constraint, 

And freedom from all earthly taint. 



34 A FEATHER FROM 

His air indifferent, which made 
Him many an enemy, was gone. 

He crossed the room ; the words were said 
Which form acquaintance' neutral dawn; 

He sat as near as he might dare, 

With a famihar, playful air. 

There was not, as romancers love, 
A sudden flashing forth of mind, 

A single sentence deftly wove 

In which their life-thoughts were entwined- 

Romantic reader, be not hurt, 

The truth is, they began to flirt. 

What contrast ! she with golden hair, 
Dark eyes, and all-pervading grace — 

He gray-eyed, dark as she was fair, 
And with a stern, medallion face. 

Bearing an inward look which lay 

Beneath his features' ceaseless play. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Their lips were active, and their eyes 

Interpreted their speech aright ; 
They felt an inner glad surprise, 

A thrill ecstatic, and a might, 
A consciousness of power to please. 
Which made excitement, mixed with ease. 

They scarcely marked the words they said ; 

But she was conscious that he took 
Her fan, and twirled it. round, and made 

Each pert speech bear a tender look. 
While they are laughing at a jest 
Of moderate worth, glance at the rest. 

Alas ! the female rank and file 

With drooping hands and eyes that wandered. 
And many a weary studied smile, 

Sat emblems of existence squandered ; 
Each guarded by some near relation — 
Sad victims of false education. 



35 



36 A FEATHER FROM 

A bore (though that is scarce distinctive, 
Since all bore all except themselves, 

Save those endowed with wits instinctive) 
Was ransacking his empty shelves. 

And holding one impatience-mad, 

Who just had spied a careless lad 

Of twice his beauty, half his age, 
And versed in every amorous wile. 

With his betrothed — O gods of rage ! 
She bent low with a blushing smile ! 

Thrice had his heart transfixed the bore — 

Relief came from the opening door. 

A man whose waistcoat mocked his face, 

A statue cut in chocolate, 
Flung wide the door with easy grace, 

And with a smile and air elate — 
His potent wordless look let loose 
The flood-gates of the gastric juice. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 37 

And each one gently led away 

A softly simpering sylph, to where 

There gleamed a silver-loaded tray, 

While round it spread the siuiiptuous fare; 

In dual order all marched in, 

Each popping cork their culverin. 



V. 



Below, the house is still and dark, 
And all above, save that between 

The long lace curtains, like a spark, 
A dim and lonely light is seen. 

Where more than one fair girlish guest. 

With her from far, prepares for rest. 

Pink shoulders glisten glazed and round, 
And many a flaccid garment white 

Is held from slipping to the ground 
By elbows jealous of the sight 



38 A FEATHER FROM 

Of the full hip and loosened waist 
Through their thin drapery dimly traced. 

Young laughter low fills all the room ; 

And Raillery, Youth's friend, with naught 
To mark him, save a fragile broom, 

To brush away the seeds of thought. 
Controls each light heart beating fast 
With memories of the revel past. 

As gay as if the tree of life 

No shadow cast athwart the world, 

A thousand questions mischief-rife, 
All fling at each ; full deftly hurled, 

A hail of malice lightly pays 

Those whom the evening crowned with bays. 

But when on Helen turns the stream 
Of girlish jests she hoped would pass. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 39 

Her eyes shoot forth an angry gleam — 
She turns away — and though she was 
The h:)udest there but just before, 
Says least — perchance to dream the more. 



40 



A FEATHER FROM 



CANTO II. 



The fairest hour of all the year! 

A winter's early afternoon : 
The sky was blue, the air was clear; 

A tint half pink and half maroon, 
Crept up above the horizon. 
Despite the feeble western sun. 

The happiest hour of all the year, 

Which frees the heart and fires the eye, 

While on the cheek of health appear 
The colors of its evening sky ; 

With avarice we breathe the air, 

So pure, transparent, cold, and rare. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 41 

A spell to wring care from the brow ! 
. 'Tis ere the twilight hath begun, 
While fir-tree shadows darker grow, 

And hill-tops redden in the sun, 
To whirl across the glittering ice, 
With swinging foot and rare device. 



II. 

She sat beside a window hig-h, 
The central casement of the pile ; 

She marked the cloudless, deep blue sky. 
And Nature's cold and marble smile — 

The very spirit of the year. 

So beautiful it was not drear. 

Before her stretched the snowy lawn, 
A valley 'twixt the towering pines; 
And where some giant limb was gone 

The sunlight streamed in serried lines 

4" 



42 



A FEATHER FROM 

Across the dry and frosty snow, 

With lengthening forms and deepening glow. 

By Winter's hand alone revealed, 
The distant village street was seen ; 

Beyond a mead in part concealed, 

Its windows caught the western sheen ; 

And nearer rose a maple tall, 

Whose leaves are golden in the Fall. 

Upon the mead a spring-house old, 
With rotted roof and fallen beam, 

Lay slowly sinking in the mould, 

And choked by refuse of the stream ; 

Beside it Indian canes were massed, 

Which hummed and whistled in the blast. 



There, too, were ancient water-willows, 
And at their feet a tender spring. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Whose gentle flow and tiny billows 
• Beneath the ice went murmuring. 
Near by, there stood a sun-dial old, 
With signs and figures manifold. 



She gazed upon the wintry scene, 
And not upon the things around ; 

The curtains, with their figures green 
Embroidered on a sombre ground, 

Came sweeping round her, rich and warm. 

And almost hid her yielding form. 



It was no room — but on the stair 

There was a landing deep and broad, 

Windowed, room-like, luxurious; there 
Were carpets springing as the sod ; 

The sofa in the deep alcove 

Seemed even designed for scenes of love : 



43 



44 ^ FEATHER FROM 

For it was wide enough for two, 
And yet so narrow that the fair 

Who nestled in that seat with you 

Must brush your forehead with her hair; 

And o'er your cheek her soft breath straying 

Made it a pleasure there delaying. 

Around were mummies of the air, 
On mossy perch set stark and high, 

Two owls with strange and glassy stare, 
A jay-bird, too, in act to fly — 

And more of such slight straw-like things 

To which the drowning memory clings. 

A sketch and some engravings rare, — 
Quaint, costly vases filled with flowers, — 

And, framed, a lock of snow-white hair, 
Pale, long-enduring tomb of hours 

That lie afar ; a table, too. 

With books of every size and hue. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 45 

Thin pamphlets upon Atheism, 

To prove his eye-teeth now are cut ; 

Fat tomes to show how faith the schism 
Between the churches soon must shut — 

With novels, too, for women's reading. 

Where Love must always think of breeding. 

And this, " Who lives must vote," — and this, 
" The Prussian system as a blessing ;" 

Near by, in an unloving kiss, 

The Westminster and British pressing — 

The whole an emblem of society 

Befuddled out of all sobriety. 

He's like a dog with a new master. 
The old one fading from his view. 

He moves now slower, and now faster, 
Now sits him down with head askew ; 

To follow which he scarce can tell, 

Yet limps along with whine and yell. 



46 A FEATHER FROM 

Her rounded, half-reclining form, 

Her leaning head and sweeping tress, 

Her skin so white and colors warm, 
Her foot in peeping carelessness, 

All made a sight so fair, the eye 

Grows dim to think such things must die. 

Her mien was sad, for she was still — 
The face at rest is always sad — 

Her thoughts were careless of her will, 
And strayed afar — perchance she had 

Some vision faint of Edmond there, — 

For who can tell ? he, too, was fair. 

And then they had so often met 

Since that first eve, and many an hour 

She had listened almost with regret 
To his low voice's thrilling power, 

Still questioning accepted things, 

And seeking for life's secret springs. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 47 

New creatures of the mind, a throng 
That called him master, when he spoke 

Came rushing forth and swept along 
Terribly beautiful, while broke 

And fled in cloudy volumes curled 

The old opinions of the world. 

And when he ceased, and ere the flood 

Of daily life had swept between 
And blurred his words, fair Helen stood 

In a new world of nobler mien. 
Or so it seemed ; for blooming there 
Was Freedom's rose, and on the air 

Its incense magical. — That unplucked flower 

Which is the moral Alpine rose, 
And blooms where highest mountains tower; 

Still smiling o'er the awful snows 
And lofty ledges wrapt in sleet, 
Which check man's climbing, bleeding feet. 



48 A FEATHER FROM 

It seemed the world must sure be changed — 
And yet a moment hence she saw 

The idols he had shattered ranged 
In potent state, without a flaw, 

While all around her bowed the knee, 

And boasted of their dignity. 

And thus the contest in her mind 

'Twixt what seemed true and what was stronj 
A feeling also scarce defined 

That all that's sweetest imist be wrong, — 
Her thoughts in strange confusion kept, 
Like reeds by eddying breezes swept. 

Perchance, although she knew it not, 

What most of all her fancy led 
Was earnestness which self forgot 

In all he thought, in all he said — 
A man of any strong belief 
Is now a striking Jiaiit-relief. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

What wonder if a thought of him 
Should ever and anon appear, 

Now as a starhght shadow dim, 

Now close beside her strong and clear, 

Yet so accompanied that the eye 

Still failed to mark its frequency ? 

She sat unconscious of the hour 

That brushed her with its downy wing, 

And swept beyond — it had no power 
To deal upon so fair a thing ; 

But with its airy pinions fanned 

The foliage of her fairy-land. 

Her eyes, though moveless as her form, 
Breathed not the same abandonment, 

They imaged back now calm, now storm, 
On ever-changing shapes intent — 

Unearthly mirrors where each thought 

In sublimated form was wrought. 
5 



A9 



50 



A FEATHER FROM 

They were not large, but purest brown, 
And clearer than the mountain spring — 

They had a look, 'twas all their own, 
A look of earnest lingering, 

As of a softness scarce revealed, 

By high unconquered pride concealed. 

As to the mountain spring 'tis given 

To image every change above, 
Till it becomes an earthly heaven, 

So every phase from scorn to love, 
The soul's whole history, from her eyes 
Flashed forth, a living Paradise. 

They were not lustrous, swimming orbs. 

Of timid heart and vain desire. 
Whose cloudy brilliancy absorbs 

And dissipates the inner fire — 
They had a tingeless beam divine. 
As stars when viewed from mountains shine. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 51 



III. 



A foot-fall on the winding stair ! 

She heard it not, but gazed without; 
Yet Edmond stood beside her there, 

While restless roamed his glance about, 
Till suddenly it fell upon 
The thing he sought — his breath was gone. 

His parted lips were still as clay. 

And one foot slowly backward stepped. 

As it would bear his form away; 
While o'er his cheek a pallor crept, 

Gray as the dews of early morn, 

That glisten on September's corn — 

Faint as the blue in moonlight, or 
The tint upon a sea-flower's cheek, 



52 



A FEATHER FROM 

Or shapes of trees and shrubs before 

The morn begins the East to streak- 
'Twas faint as all of these, yet clear — 
'Twas early love's companion — fear. 



Upon a wild and blooming mead 

Whoe'er has stopped, and looked behind, 

Has seen the flowers from 'neath his tread 
Rise slowly up, though still inclined — 

So slowly did he gain control 

Of his bewildered, panting soul. 



With leaded feet, but steady mien, 
He crossed in silence from the stair, 

And glided to her side unseen, 
And with a half-caressing air 

Sat down beside her in the groove 

Of the old panelled deep alcove. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 53 

She started — and a winged cry 

Sprang to her lips, but rested there ; 

For turning quick she met his eye— 
And o'er her face, confused but fair, 

There rippled forth a sudden blush, 

With far diffused and spreading flush. 

As welcome to that gazer's eye. 

In tint as lovely, as the rose 
Which first beholds June's deep blue sky, 

While comrades still are in repose; 
Whom kissing dews have waked, with fear 
To be the season's pioneer. 

Her color deepened, as she laughed 

With beautiful embarrassment ; 
But even now excitement's graft, 

From fear, the trunk on which it leant. 
Had sprouted wild — in mutual tease 
And jest, they felt, — no not at ease, — 



54 



A FEATHER FROM 

But a sweet fever, a desire 

To push each other towards the brink ; 
With icy hands and head on fire, 

They trifle, showing, though they shrink, 
That trembHng eagerness which gives 
To h'ght words power o'er human Hves. 

Perchance their Hmbs e'en Hghtly touched — 
They knew it not, or if they did, 

The happy senses quickly clutched 
Perception's robe, and gently bid 

Her turn and look another way. 

Which she did willingly obey. 

Unconsciously their eyes began 

To gain a deeper, softer light, 
A tremor through their being ran, 

Their world seemed fuller, and a might 
Voluptuous languished in each vein — 
'Twas like the quick surcease of pain. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 55 

Unconsciously their voices fell 

Lower and lower, till the tone 
Was like the tremble of a bell 

When the stroke ceases ; there alone, 
They felt their horizon expand, 
Like one who finds an unknown land. 

Her hand is at her lover's lips, 

Cold as a flower before the dawn — 

He breathes, as from his clasp it slips, 

" You love me ?" Turning towards the lawn 

And rivalling its sunset glow, 

She whispers, ** I could love" — when lo ! 

The banister, that friend to age, 

Gave forth a sudden creaking sound, — 

The steps groaned as in fear and rage, — 
A smothered wheezing upward wound, — 

A heavy foot toiled up the stair — 

An inmate elderly was there ! 



56 A FEATHER FROM 

Their breath was short from passion — hers 
From her late combat with the stairs; 

And as she slow removed her furs 

She talked of thousand trifles — theirs 

It was to stand with flashing eyes 

And burning cheeks, and blurt replies. 

How much the small round eyes might see 
They knew not, scarcely cared — their hope 

Was from the presence to be free, 

And give their prisoned feelings scope — 

But pretexts fly from scenes of flurry. 

As shirt-buttons from scenes of hurry. 

At last, with unremembering mien, 
Helen remembered that that day 

She had not once the green-house seen — 
The sun was low — she feared the gray, 

Long, winter shadows would confuse 

Its tints, and blur the flowers' hues. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 57 

And thus they hastened forth, when he 
Had first around her wrapped a shawl, 

Dark, fringed, and broidered curiously — 
They stood within the antlered hall — 

Around her slow he drew its fold 

With lingering fingers scarce controlled. 

And as he drew his hands away, 

Perchance they swept the full round form. 
As lightly as a snow-flake may 

A leaf which trembles in the storm — 
And Helen trembled, while her cheek 
Was like that leaflet's crimson streak. 

Along the snow-cut walk they passed 
'Twixt lines of peeping box — their eyes 

Were downcast, and their hearts beat fast — 
Their forms were colored by the skies. 

Slow grew their steps as on they went. 

White-breathed, sun-tinted, forward bent. 



58 



A FEATHER FROM 



IV. 

A moment leave them, if but one — 
Their feeb'ngs who can separate ? 

Self-consciousness was almost gone, 
Save a strange heart-gripe, half elate — 

A painful waking into life 

Of hopes and fears, of calm and strife. 

A moment follow Edmond's thought 

In its involuntary range. 
In vain to rouse himself he sought, 

Against his will the scene would change— 
His mind flagged, overtaxed and strained — 
The past upon his footsteps gained. 

He stands, as oft a boy he stood, 
In Pennsylvania's wilderness — 



THE WORLD'S WING. 59 

A clearing in a mighty wood 

Whose dark ranks on it seem to press ; 
Around the sumach gleams like fire, 
Massed thick with wild-flowers, brush, and brier. 



And underneath the sumach's red, 
Its brown and furry branch is seen, 

Like deer-horns in the velvet ; dead 
And lichen-coated stumps between 

Peep dully forth ; and over all, 

With golden slant, in patches fall 



Warm Autumn sunbeams, populous 
With darting moths, and poised flies. 

And clustered gnats all nebulous; 
Amidst, a barkless tree doth rise, 

Upon whose forked and pointed limbs 

The reddening sunlight slowly climbs. 



6o A FEATHER FROM 

The outlaw hawk his watch-tower finds 
Upon its topmost branch, so still 

He seems a branch, save that the winds 
Oft raise his feathers like a frill. 

Who looks aright upon such scenes 

Upon a power immortal leans. 

'Twas but a twitching of the brain, 
A flash of the o'erwilful mind, 

A consciousness akin to pain, — 

And yet in words how slow defined — 

Thoughts have an eye which all things sees. 

But words feel on by slow degrees. 



V. 

How tangled on the warm moist air, 
The perfumes of a thousand flowers ! 

The blooms of an acacia fair 
Fell down in meteoric showers. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 6 1 

As they, unmindful, jarred the door, 
And paced the raised and latticed floor. 

They joined the beauty of the scene, 
A part unconscious, even as those 

Whose many-colored ranks between 
They slowly passed ; the gentle blows 

Of overhanging petalled sprays 

Could not awake their outward gaze. 

Pale callas and azaleas white, 

And heliotropes flashed ruby-hued 

In the long-threaded, deep red light 

With which their fibres seemed imbued — 

Save only the outrivalled rose, 

Which sank into a pale repose. 

The young flood of their lives has come! 

The pathway to one side was bent 
6 



62 A FEATHER FROM 

At the end of the long glassy dome — 

Here Helen turned, and turning leant, 
With grace which turmoil could not dim. 
Upon the old wall's wood-bound rim. 



Her eyes flashed full upon her lover, 
But sank as quickly to the ground, 

As if his thoughts she would discover, 
Yet feared an import too profound — 

A moment Edmond silent stood. 

Then spoke in concentrated mood. 



'* You know I love you — words are vain 
To paint the passion in my breast, 

Yet must I say it o'er again, 

And o'er, and o'er, until oppressed 

By joy — one only thought is clear, 

'Tis I who speak and you who hear. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 63 

" For the mere breathing of this word, 
Its simple utterance twixt us twain, 

E'en though but for a moment heard, 
Forges a mystic, viewless chain, 

A mutual knowledge hid from all, 

Which time and change can ne'er recall. 

"The sense that there exists a link 
Between a thing so fair and me, 

I feel, — for now I cannot think, — 
Is joy as boundless as the sea ; 

I feel new force within my frame. 

My being is not all the same. 

" I boast no pure platonic flame, 

No spiritual love divine, 
My heart I cannot, would not tame, 

To prate with desultory whine, 
Of disembodied souls united 
And ghosts in holy union plighted. 



64 ^ FEATHER FROM 

" What is a love that sex denies ? 

'Tis friendship, liking, what you will, 
Aught, anything but love — it lies. 

And calls itself a prince; but still 
Forgets its part, and asks for alms, 
With abject mien and shaking palms. 

" Nay, 'tis a pale and jaundiced thing • 
Born of a sickly phantasy. 

Suspicious, ready to take wing, 
And feeding but on vanity — 

A thing that waits and bides its time — 

But patience is love's greatest crime. 

*' The brutal peasant's dull desire, 
The dreamer's chilly preference, 

Are peers— but oh ! the living fire. 
Still fed by soul, and fanned by sense, 

This, this is love, and it is mine — 

Oh, may I whisper. Is it thine ? 



THE WORLD'S WING. 65 

" My eyes like things within a net, 

Can never struggle from your charms, 

I — nay, I will be bold — and yet — 
I die to press you in my arms, 

To feel the beauty that I see, 

And worship its reality. 

" You hear me ; oh ! the boon is much — 
Yet would you quickly shrink away, 

Recoiling from my lightest touch, 
Like ripples from the breezes play, 

Or struggling endmost leaves, — or rills. 

Or echoes, springing from the hills. 

" It is no hour for measured speech, 

Yet ere yon ruddy clouds grow gray 

With early age, I fain would teach 

You what I am. How hard to say 

That which may — No, when on the brink, 

Upon the gulf 'tis death to think. 
6* 



66 A FEATHER FROM 

** I ne'er shall deem/as deems the world, 

That woman is a drifting thing, 
Meant but to float with sails all furled 

And rotting useless where they cling, 
While others skim along the deep, 
And toward the far horizon sweep. 

" I could not treat you as a child, 
To be cajoled, deceived, caressed, 

Deluded, dazzled, and beguiled. 

By silken, jewelled cords oppressed — 

No, no, I love you ! hear and see 

The truth, and choose your destiny. 

" Oft would I leave my comrades' play 
To follow morning mists on high. 

Swift ghostly guides which swept away 
Towards the mountain-tops, while I 

Toiled after them, until I gained 

Gulf-peering rocks, whose necks seemed strained- 



THE WORLD'S WING. 6/ 

*• Serrate, snow-sifted, awful things, 
Forgetful of their nature, — striving 

With outstretched beak and stony wings 
To fly from the bleak summits, — living 

Chained by one foot alone — while under 

Roll unopposed blasts, clouds and thunder. 

•• No life was there, save thoughts that dwell 

In airy desolation — these 
Made populous the cliffs, the dell 

Shrunk to a shade, the adventurous trees 
Which clung beneath, the distance that 
Pillared my feet while there I sat. 

" Oft did my childish footsteps roam 
Where lives the otter, turtle, eel, — 

The widgeon's and the black-duck's home, — 
Wild sedges of the snipe and teal, — 

Those boundless marshes green and fair. 

Which fringe the mighty Delaware. 



68 A FEATHER FROM 

" The red-winged blackbird singing swung 
Upon a low-bent reed ; near by 

A cat-tail o'er the water hung, 

And dipped, and dipped, and constantly 

Let fall one drop, whose life expanded 

In circles dying ere they stranded. 

** And I — I gazed, and gazed, and dreamed, 
So still the musk-rat brushed me by; 

Above me far the fish-hawk screamed, 
The buzzard floated in the sky ; 

While in my heart rose thoughts profound, 

The children of the scenes around. 

" I dared to dream of Liberty — 

She seemed in Nature's image framed. 

But with a fairer destiny — 

Like her all boundless and untamed. 

And like her ne'er to know surcease. 

Yet, unlike her, still to increase. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 69 

" I dared to think — I think so still — 
That man o'erburdened cannot climb, — 

That man may, must obey his will, 
His compass on the sea of time — 

That needle true which from afar 

Still points towards Progress' polar star. 

" There is a freedom higher still 

Than that which takes embodied form 

In states that own the people's will, 

And keep the hopes of millions warm — 

It is the freedom of the mind, 

Whose limits ne'er shall be defined. 

** It is the right conferred by Thought 
On him who wears her cognizance — 

An hour, with this motto wrought, 
/ cannot turn, but must advance — 

To act upon his heart's behest, 

His own tribunal in his breast. 



70 A FEATHER FROM 

" I gaze across the moving world, 
And see one stationary thing, — 

Still as a winter's leaf all curled 

And cold upon the breast of Spring — 

Oh, why must woman live beneath 

The shadow grim of moral death ? 

" What Is her life from infancy ? 

To be the chosen ward of age — 
That stolid guard with leaden eye, 

Who hints no life beyond her cage — 
So trained to darkness that her sight 
Shrinks aching from a ray of light. 

** She is the sport of words, the scene 
Of life's most lifeless tragedy, 

The shuttlecock which flies between 
Prescription and Propriety ; 

Her thoughts are hamstrung as they rise. 

Her hopes are smothered spite their cries. 



THE WORLD'S WING. yi 

" O'er the world's snow her instincts peerini^, 
Bright hyacinths of her new-born Spring, 

Their petals innocently rearing, 
And timidly as they would cling 

To a stray sunbeam, sink 'neath feet 

Which wait their forms in pulp to beat. 

" But what are woman's rights ? To bear 

The brunt of life's necessities ? 
In toil and progress both to share ? 

Ay ; but her right eternal is. 
To love when, how, and whom she would — 
Her chains are on her womanhood. 

" The modern man — not him of old, 
Who stalks about in modern dress — 

That human flesh is bought and sold 
Can never learn ; companionless, 

He moves amongst a captive throng 

Whose thoughts do not to them belong. 



72 



A FEATHER FROM 

" They say that woman loves the grave, 
That she is with her lot content, 

As lately 'gainst another slave. 

Now free, the self-same bow was bent — 

This is their argument: the lower 

The fire, the less it needs the blower. 

" There is a feeling in the world, 
A ghost from the long-buried past, 

That life would be in chaos hurled. 
If hearts were not in irons cast — 

Then progress is thy fruit, O tree, 

Swift fading now, of tyranny ! 

" The laws on usury and trade 

Were deemed the guardians of mankind- 
Where are they ? Yet their loss has made 

The liens which modern life doth bind — 
Does then the nobler part, the soul, 
More than self-interest need control ? 



THE WORLD'S WING, 73 

** As men place screws in coffin-lids — 

Place to remain — Opinion makes 
Youth's heart a fixity — then chides 

Its still cold dream which never wakes — 
That ships may quickly come to land, 
Pray nail the compass to its stand.'' 

He turned to her and faintly smiled, — 
A trembling smile ; — thus far the flow 

Of his own passion had beguiled 

The crisis of his thoughts : but now — 

He sudden gazed into her eyes, 

Yet saw no clear-drawn answer rise. 

She looked the feeling in her heart, 

'Twas that of one, who from some deep 

And gentle dream awaked in part, 
Would back into the vision creep — 

He nearer drew, and 'gan to speak 

With softer voice and paler cheek. 



74 



A FEATHER FROM 

" The world would drive me from your side, 
To seek the lowly and the vile — 

For only wealth can take a bride, 
On him alone dare beauty smile — 

Or I must wait and toil till I 

Can smother love in luxury. 

" What, must I wait as Youth now waits. 
Deep in the selfish search for gain, 

His hands, but not his heart the State's, 
Careless of others' joy or pain. 

Dead to all public thought ?— O men ! 

Why is not Youth a citizen ? 

" Oh, must I live, like Youth, a priest 
In all but hood and shaven crown, — 

One of a caste apart, — released 

From that sweet bond round others thrown. 

With no bright chain of sympathy 

And love between mankind and me ? 



THE WORLD'S WING. 75 

"■ Or may I dream that life is fair 

And pure as latticed moonlight ? We 

But note the image it may wear 
To us. Can you repeat with me, 

Virtue ! thou art guileless love ? 
May not our hearts in concert move ? 

" Oh, can you love me as I am ?" 
She tore a flower to yellow spray. 

And faltered, " In my own room's calm, 
I have so much that I would say. 

So much to tell ; but when you come, 

1 know not why, yet I am dumb. 

" And now, 'twere foolish to deny 

That aught that you have said has found 

My heart — to answer I would try — 

But I have thoughts which will not sound — 

Perhaps, if I could once begin 

Tis growing late — we will go in." 



76 A FEATHER FROM 

Her voice had ever thrilled his heart, 
Liquid and sweet, yet free in tone ; 

But now no language could impart 
Its trembling life, before unknown. 

In all the world there can be found 

To match with it one only sound — 

'Tis robins' voices, after showers, 
When sudden bursts the setting sun 

Upon the dripping leaves and flowers. 
And robes them in his mantle dun — 

Hark how their chorus wild and clear 

Sweeps through the freshened atmosphere ! 

With no endearment, no embrace. 
No pressure of the hand, they turned 

Their footsteps slowly to retrace ; 
But on each cheek a lustre burned, 

Their step was firmer, and their eye 

Flashed faith on treacherous Destiny. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

They were as dew-drops which condense 

From out the universal air, — 
Each mortal's breath, but more intense, — 

A part of what is everywhere — 
These flash in heaven's own light arrayed, 
Then vanish ere their colors fade. 

They were bright ripples of that river 
Which rushes through the human mind, 

That stream which sweeps along forever. 

Whose gathering volume naught can bind — 

Foam from its current, with a gleam, 

Still eddying onward while we dream. 



77 



78 



A FEATHER FROM 



CANTO III. 



In the wild sea-goat's coil the moon 
Hung low upon the Southern bord ; 

The trees' long shadows crept to noon 
Upon their dial of dusky sward. — 

Sleep, shadows, sleep, forget to move. 

Spare the returnless hours of love. 

There was no wind, yet sable clouds. 
With moon-lit garments white and fair 

Swept slowly on ; not massed in crowds, 
But one by one, with pensive air, 

As if their noiseless feet kept time 

To some wild strain, unheard, sublime. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 79 

The cricket sang his August song, 
His still-recurring ghostly glee — 

A tone which makes a moment long, 
And images Eternity ; 

Making new stillness, even where 

There is no sound, no breath of air. 

Naught marred that harmony of gloom 
Which follows dying Summer's days. 

The grasshopper his threadless loom 
Had checked as sank the western rays ; 

The rattling locust's scorching cry 

Had ceased while yet the sun was high. 

The maple leaves their silvered side 
Turned outward to the moon ; for they 

Yielded to a quick gust, which died 
Almost before they could obey, — 

Leaving no currents where it passed, 

Those airy footprints of the blast. 



8o A FEATHER FROM 

It was no midnight damp and chill 
Such as late August ever knows, 

When night feels a cold shuddering thrill 
While dreaming of the coming snows ; 

'Twas June, without her spirits high. 

And intermittent fire-fly. 

The silent, ivy-shrouded mansion 
By contrast seemed as ghostly white 

As when on buttress, roof, and stanchion 
The snow was piled that winter's night ; 

For shades corporeal from each tree 

Replaced their netted filigree. 

Across a narrow path which skirted 
A chasm deep where willows grew, — 

By daylight lonely and deserted, — 
The branches tangled shadows threw ; 

And where they fell not, gleamed the grass 

And diamond-glitt'ring isinglass. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 8 1 

From out the weed-encumbered dell, 

Tier upon tier along its bank, 
Trees rose with undulating swell, 

Like wave on wave; a figure shrank 
Within the border of the glade, 
Where densest fell the ebon shade. 

'Tis Edmond ; for a moonbeam now 
Flits o'er his face — an instant there, — 

Yet long enough, alas ! to show 
Already that pain, doubt, and care. 

Love's train, have made his heart their home — 

No more, mayhap, from there to roam. 

Doubts of himself, his life, his mind. 
Of the close-woven thoughts of years. 

Doubts of all freedom, of mankind — 
Such doubts assailed him and such fears, 

As o'er the world in parties steal. 

And ever on the wounded deal. 



82 A FEATHER FROM 

'* Is life but our own heart with wings ? 

Our deepest theories fretting games, 
One long mistake of thoughts for things, 

A mingling of uncertain names ? 
And all our efforts but the one 
To gain the hazy horizon ? 

" The hope to find a love which may 
Those forces into being call 

Which we feel dormant in our clay. 
These are not more chimerical — 

A happy man, a singing flower, 

A sailing stone, a generous power." 

His thoughts limped slowly, sadly on : 
"She comes not; I have overweighed 

Each word, each look, and every one 
Of the impassioned hours which made 

Recoil seem but a mockery — 

They melt beneath my very eye. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 83 

" I know she loves me ; but her heart 

Has failed. And now, what end, what key 

To all which had become a part 
Of my own life ! to stand and see 

The moonbeams frost the hemlock cone. 

And hear this summer wind — alone." 

A sinewy step, but light as down ! 

A quick form glanced from shade to shade — 
A stifling net seemed round him thrown — 

Where fled his thoughts of love betrayed? 
Sudden his blood reversed its flow — 
Helen is on his bosom now ! 

The embrace seemed as 'twould last forever, 
Yet was the coldest of their lives — 

'Twas only the untaught endeavor 
To catch at aught that respite gives. 

They felt it soon must end, and then — 

Trembling they closer drew again. 



84 ^ FEATHER FROM 

She raised her head and gazed around, 
As if seized by some outward fear — 

They heard a rustling on the ground, 
Because they knew no Hfe was near ; 

Each felt an inmost dread to own 

That they were thus all, all alone. 

They turned and slowly paced along, 
And as they moved beneath the trees, 

Leaf-shadows, clustered throng on throng, 
Swept up their garments, until these 

Dim shapes appeared a dreamy flood 

Still hurrying o'er them while they stood. 

And as they went, there oft recurred 
The self-same questions and replies, — 

If aught within the house had stirred, 
And why she came so late — their eyes 

Met not — she answered all was still, 

Like one in sleep deprived of will. 



THE WORLD'S WING, 85 

Had they not striven to be alone ? 

Had they not planned this hour from far? 
And now — they could but check a moan, 

And gazing on each tranquil star, 
Strive from its beam some thought to gain 
To still their hearts, which throbbed to pain. 

There was a bench beneath some willows. 
Which, as the lovers sought their shade, 

Above them rolled their foamless billows; 
They gained this small and open glade; 

Unconsciously he spread her cloak ; 

They sat them down, but neither spoke. 

A silver birch erect and fair 

Its multitudinous shadow cast 
Even at their feet, and lingering there. 

The moon a white band round it passed ; 

Its trembling shades fixed Helen's eye — 

She dared not move, yet knew not why. 
8 



86 A FEATHER FROM 

This was their suninicr home by day, 
No leaf was there they had not seen, 

Yet all seemed strange, and far away — 
Their past as if it had not been ; 

They almost wished they had not come, — 

Each strove to speak, yet both were dumb. 

They sat as they would sit forever 
Parts of the scene inanimate, 

Like Egypt's sitting forms which never 
Their awful stillness shall abate; 

The moonlight checkered each pale face, 

And lighted their dim resting-place. 

From out that all-surrounding deep, 
That silent, phantom-peopled clime, 

That void where all our feelings sleep 
Till they are by the watchman Time 

Called into waking, there arose 

In Edmond, something like repose. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 87 

With effort, but untrembling now, 
He passed his arm about her form ; 

His heart f^rew sentient ; flow on flow. 
From that resistance soft and warm, 

A nascent glow began to creep 

Through all his being waked from sleep. 

Their heart-beat changed — it swifter grew, — 

Nay, swift to suffocation, yet 
'Twas steady as an infant's, who 

In sleep hath nothing to forget ; 
They almost laughed with joy to hear 
Fall clinking down the chains of fear. 

As when in .^ome wild-cadenced chant 
The deep bass sudden volume gives, 

So now in every breath they pant 

A fulness comes from their past lives, 

Which bodying this hour's soul. 

Gives passionate meaning to the whole. 



88 A FEATHER FROM 

There, in the old, scooped rustic seat, 

With willow sweepers round them twining, 

Their warm hearts feel each other's beat, 
No moonbeams are between them shining. 

They cast one shade. Your longings slake, 

E'en Time treads lighter for your sake ! 

Oh, how it happened who can tell ? 

The love-opposing brooch, which bound 
With prudish clasp her robe, now fell, 

And glistened down upon the ground ; 
Her bosom flashed forth full and white — 
Then deeply dyed the pale moonlight. 

Not the moon's liquid marble flood, 
Like tombstones melted and diffused. 

Could steal the hue from that young blood. 
Whose rush her senses all confused ; 

Her head sank down upon his breast, 

As birds at sunset seek their rest. 



IHE WORLD'S WING, 89 

Nature's dim mantle wrapped them round, 

.And her soft prompting breath, by day 
Far scattered o'er the world like sound. 

Urging to love all living clay, 
Even to the mites on each flower's stem ; 
Now that all slept, fell full on them ; 

And in their glance of languid light, 
Their failing muscles and their frames, 

Which tingled with a pained delight. 
The struggled utterance of their names, 

In their sigh, as they backward leant, 

It found one wild embodiment. 



II. 

'Tis moonset, and the trees among 

The moonlight pours, an altered thing. 

It has a life, a spirit tongue 

The senses all bewildering ; 
8* 



90 



A FEATHER FROM 

A dreamy splendor reigns whose hue 
Makes pale the real and the true. 

The moon shines from the Western bord, 
As only sinking moons can shine; 

While flashes back from the wet sward 
A glow like phosphorescent brine ; 

Instead of white beams cold and tame, 

Behold one widespread yellow flame. 

The trees' black shadows sleep in files, 
Like cloak-wrapped corpses on the field, 

Between them long illumined aisles 

Stretch Eastward. Oh, fair dreamers, yield, 

Before this radiance soft awake ! 

Ere Time your bubble rudely break. 

Despite the beauty of the hour, 

Which wooes their concentrated gaze, 



THE WORLD'S WING. 91 

Despite the waning night's chill power, 

Which fain would cool their blood's bright blaze, 
They dream, as they together press. 
If dreaming be forgetfulness. 



Melt into moonlight if ye may ! 

While Nature beats your impulses, 
While she is near you, and her sway 

Finds form in yon transfusing kiss,- 
While every intermediate thought, 
And man-born influence is naught. 



Melt into moonlight if ye may ! 

Behold, it widely round you gleams, 
On every leaf, each glistening spray, 

Each dew-bent blade of grass it streams, 
While softer rays twined with your hair, 
Form halos like the moon doth wear. 



92 A FEATHER FROM 

Melt into moonlight if ye may ! 

Oh, leave not soft indulgent Night! 
Towards you floating with the day 

Comes the harsh world, whose monster might 
Still rises with the sun's red car. 
But pales before the rising star. 



III. 

The moon with every hindmost beam 
And all her shadowy train was gone, 

Like some bright, many-thoughted dream. 
Which flies at the approach of dawn ; 

But o'er the farthest Western hill 

A golden memory lingered still. 

The middle heaven still was blue. 

But opposite, within the east. 
There rose a bright-green matchless hue 

Pale with the thoughts of conquest; beast 



THE WORLD'S WING. 93 

And bird, and every living thing 
Felt tremors stir their slumbering. 



The winter stars, which told of morn, 

Were high above the horizon ; 
They wore an aspect lost and lorn, 

As if they saw the coming sun — 
How different from the glances clear 
With which they rise to rule the year ! 

The beings we have followed far 
Awoke, but not from sleep, to feel 

A motion new within life's car — 

But whither ? Though their senses reel, 

A new thought thrills them — it is this, — 

A longer, slower, softer kiss. 

The freshness of the early morn. 

The dream-notes of still slumbering birds, 



94 ^^ FEATHER FROM 

The fragrance of the tasselled corn, 

Unconscious mingled with their words, 
And tempered their wild hearts' excess 
With an o'erflow of tenderness. 



Now all unchecked, her head sank down, 
And seemed to melt into his breast, 

While languidly about him thrown. 

Her white arms hung, and she was pressed 

Close to his heart, — but yet both shook 

And eastward cast a troubled look. 



They parted, 'tis enough to say — 

What matter how ? at last 'twas done. 

They slowly forced their forms away. 
Their backward glances, one by one. 

They loosened from their hold, till these 

Were baffled by the misty trees. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

O Future ! whatsoe'er thou hast 

For them within thy changing chme, 

Thou never canst excel the past — 
Oh, let them stay the hand of Time ! 

While their young life-twig still is seen 

An Autumnless, bright, living green. 

Green as the moss on fallen trees 
In Susquehanna's wooded valleys, 

Where sunbeams come not, and the breeze 
But with the topmost branches dallies ; 

Where all is moist, where all is still, 

Save the crow's rasp, and trickling rill. 

Turn from the hues our life doth wear. 
From love, and joy, and fear, and hope, 

Which are but varied names for care, 
To that which gives our spirit scope — 

See, Pennsylvania widely spreads 

Her hemlock forest o'er our heads. 



95 



96 A FEATHER FRO. If 

Ascend yon hill of sloping green — 
A leafy ocean rolls below 

Its timeless flood, and brightly sheen 
Its billows as the breezes blow ; 

By day 'tis weird, mysterious, dim, — 

By night black, spirit-filled and grim. 



The deep, slow laughter of a bird,* 
With its wild, marrow-seeking thrill. 

At midnight and by moonlight heard, 
Far sweeping through the shadows chill, 

Clutches the 'lated passer's heart — 

Then hurls it onward with a start. 



* It has been the writer's good fortune to hear the great laughing 
owl under the circumstances described. There is no mocking malice 
in the laugh. That were commonplace. It is the blood-curdling 
indifference to all human weal or woe of the deep tones, as they 
slowly die away, which makes ll)em so terrible. 



THE WORLD'S WING, gy 

Who could not dream his woes away, 
. Fair Pennsylvania, by thy pools 
- Black with the blood of pines, and gray 

With stumps of perished trees ; where rules 
A painless stillness of the tomb, 
A happy, heart-sustaining gloom. 

Each heart that mingles with thy scenes, 

When worn by pain or overjoy, 
Will leap the space that intervenes 

And roam thy wilds, once more a boy — 
Imperishable beauty there, 
Which wakes a love that knows not care. 



IV. 

The sun is up, and spreads his rays 
Of red and gold o'er earth and sky ; 

The air is full of sound ; the ways 
Replete with early passers-by ; 



98 



A FEATHER FROM 

A city 'neath the horizon, 

Breathes upward smoke of sallow dun. 

A thousand thoughts of hate and fear, 
Of selfish interest, and of strife. 

This ruddy radiance broad and clear 
Awakens into eager life ; 

The world's arena's torch is lit — 

The weak to darkness must submit. 

Millions, with flashing eyes of fire. 
Nerve for life's gladiatorial show. 

That wave of blood which wafts us higher, 
Source of advancement and of woe ; — 

But two are deeply sleeping now, 

With moonlight dew on each pale brow. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 



99 



CANTO IV. 



A SOUND ! The sound, the one sole sound 

All self-sustaining, echoless, — 
Accompanying music spread around 

Time's slippered feet that onward press, — 
Cadence of thought, all-languaged, free, — 
The world's deep breathing — Hark ! the sea ! 

Where the wind drives his viewless plough, 
And sows tempestuous seeds, and still 

Sings as he sows — now deep-voiced, now 
In accents dissonant and shrill ; 

While flapping sails and sea-birds' wings 

Keep concert as the giant sings. 



lOO A FEATHER FROM 

A damp air, and a perfume salt 

From thousand flowers growing deep 

In many a fretted, shelly vault 

Where breeze-like currents round them sweep, 

And waft their fragrance fresh afar 

Where'er the eternal waters are. 

The ocean far before us spreads, 

Deep blue, with inlaid green and gray ; 

The sun begins to sink, and sheds 
A deepening lustre far away, 

And where the rolling breakers come. 

Flings fresh-cut roses 'midst the foam. 

They roll as they have ever rolled, 
With sudden rush and quick return, 

And with white, pointed fingers cold 

Plane the wet glistening sands ; which burn 

With a long, narrow, ruddy glare, 

Though still the sun is high in air. 



THE WORLD'S WING. loi 

Above the waters' sidelong flow 

The sand spreads white, and deep, and dry; 
The winds oft lift it up like snow. 

And bear it lightly whirling by, 
Till wreath on wreath and drift on drift 
It fills each new-indented rift : 

For 'twixt the billows and the line 
Of hillocks low, whose grass is seen, 

Half-buried, sparsely to incline 

Its sharp-edged blades of light cold green, 

Are tracks of wheels and many feet, — 

As men in crowds were wont to meet. 

It is no wild and lonely coast — 

But here men build and congregate, 

To see their little being lost 

Before the might they would abate ; 

For here alone assembled man 

Can cast no shade on Nature's plan. 
9* 



I02 A FEATHER FROM 

In twos and threes with listless eye 

Do many indolently stroll. 
Lovers here whisper not — though high 

Their voices, they are in control 
To the stern waves. Two brightly dressed 
Come slow, apart from all the rest. 

Can these be they whom last we saw, 
Creatures of moonlight and of shade. 

Embodiments of Nature's law 

Wild beings by the moment made ? 

Can these be they ? Around in space 

The thought flies without resting-place. 

Was it a mere fantastic dream, 
Born of the fevers of the mind, — 

Some memory-freak, some sudden gleam, 
With poetry and midnight twined ? 

They look so like the unvaried crowd : — 

But no — 'tis they — And yet a cloud 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Has dulled their features, and their feet 
. Move heavily, as they would rest, — 
Yet cannot bear those thoughts to meet 

Whose nearing flight is favored best 
By stillness. What they may have been 
Is lost in something dimly seen. 



II. 



They moved not with the careless bands, 
That still kept pacing to and fro ; 

With eyes upon the frothy sands. 

Their backs towards the western glow, 

They wandered slowly ever on. 

Till they are with the waves alone. 

Then Helen lingered to behold 

The many-floated weeds — some brown, 

Some tinged with amber, some with gold. 
Oft on the beach a mass was thrown, 



03 



104 A FEATHER FROM 

Which when the billow ceased to urge, 
Divided the receding surge. 

And once when at her feet was seen, 
As from an earthly garden come, 

A broad bruised leaf of brightest green, 
She stooped to pluck it from the scum — 

But memory checked her hand, and then, 

Sighing she wandered on again. 

Perchance she seemed a shade, — but no. 
The world has eyes which shame the lynx, 

To scrutinize a woman (oh, 

How from its piercing stare she shrinks!) 

'Twas a vain dream, for the world cast 

No glance on Helen as she passed. 

They stopped at last and gazed around. 
It was a turning of the shore. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

The rounded outer point which crowned 

A long and gradual jutting ; pour 
The billows here more heavily, 
The breeze comes fresher from the sea. 



They marvelled they so far had come : 
To right and left along the coast 

A white eternity of foam 

Gleamed on, and on, till sense was lost 

In dreaming of beyonds beyond 

The lines which sea and sky confound. 



Red pulpy sea-weeds round were strewn 
And dark-ribbed shells ; and near at hand 

A wave-greened wreck peeped forth, which soon 
Must disappear beneath the sand, 

As unprogressive souls sink down 

Amidst life's cares wherever thrown. 



105 



I06 ^ FEA'lHER FROM 

A piece of drift here Edmond rolled 
To Helen's feet ; they sat them down. 

Her sun-lit hair flew uncontrolled, 

Now plaited by the winds, now blown 

In massy strands across her face, 

Hiding the sadness of its grace. 

Her hand upon his shoulder fell 
As lightly as a flake of snow, 

Within some silent wooded dell. 
And full as white ; and slowly now 

Beside her hand she laid her cheek. 

And sighed a thought, but did not speak. 

Her former proudly conscious mien, 
Her half-aggressive, playful air. 

Were merged in a new softness seen 
Pervading all her being fair. 

Like the sweet aspect of a flower. 

Whose beauty is its only power. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Her eyes now followed Edmond's hand, 
, Now tearful roamed across the sea, 
While he upon the smooth white sand 

Carved figures strange ; and on her knee 
Resting the arm which held his head, 
He chiefly thought, but partly said : 

" So then our path of life has come 

To this lone point — and stops ; for here 

It merges in yon streak of foam : 
Our happy, glowing, fleeting year, 

Since that bright August night has been 

But prelude to this evening scene. 

" No leaf-obstructed stellar ray 

Was e'er so thin as the slight thread 

Which drags us from sweet life away 
And will not break — 'tis doom unsaid, 

'Tis man's opinion unexpressed. 

Which draws us towards unwelcome rest. 



107 



I08 A FEATHER FROM 

** What is our fault ? 'tis love — O hate, 
Revenge, and Envy, with lip curled, 

And head erect, and eye elate, 

Ye boldly stalk the applauding world ! 

But love, and love in man alone, 

No worth or beauty can atone. 

" But now since nothing yet is known. 
And gazing in surrounding eyes, 

No chilling shadow there is shown, 
A phantom future will arise, 

And whisper, O return ! this hath 

But been a dream, pursue your path ! 

" Perchance 'twere stronger to return, 
And bear as much as flesh may bear — 

No heroism here doth burn, 

There's nothing noble in despair — 

But to behold you — no ! Then fly ! — 

What means, what wealth for flight have I ? 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

" The chase of knowledge and of art, 
The timely flight from conquering pain, 

The power to obey the heart, 

Or o'er the mind's dominion reign, 

Are magic grains which golden flails 

Alone can thresh ; naught else avails. 

" That concentrate, conglomerate throng. 
That stone of which we are the orist. 

The world so concrete, dense, and strong, 
Seems leaving us like blowing mist, — 

As unto those in a balloon, 

The earth seems sinking in a swoon. 

" The world for us is like the bee, 

Which flies and leaves its sting behind — 

Nay, 'tis a spectre suddenly 
Uprising on the passing wind. 

And giving its decree of death — 

Then melting like to frosty breath. 

lO . 



[09 



lO A FEATHER FROM 

" We stretch our arms in eager prayer 

For mitigation or reprieve, 
Adjuring but the empty air — 

And yet the fiat stern doth hve ; 
Thus the world's heart is not of steel, 
But air — O where should we appeal ? 

"To influence mankind's a thing 

For which long lives are but too brief,- 
And we have moments — lingering, 
We would imagine some relief — 
As if the tortoise Thought would speed 
His steady foot for mortals' need, 

" Yet here is comfort, in this state 

Of gathering and encroaching gloom, 

The constant effort to be great, 
My early battle with the tomb, 

The hope to serve my fellow-men, 

Come sweeping brightly back again. 



THE WORLD'S WING. \\ 

" How have I striven ! — nay, still I strive! 

For though my form be in the past, 
My thoughts, as I would hope, shall live — 

Ideas are in the present cast; 
For written thoughts are living things 
Which from Time's pinions pluck their wings. 

" I would expound the toihng sage 

To hearts that of his theme would tire, 

Condense the spirit of the age. 
And gift it with a tongue of fire — 

Seeds would I scatter which shall bloom 

When hands which sow are in the tomb. 

" I fain would strike upon the bell 

Which mightier hands than mine have hung, 
Till o'er the world one note should swell. 

One all-intelligible tongue — 
The paean of the mind set free, 
And heart attuned to liberty. 



12 A FEATHER FROM 

*' But * words are wind' — yea, the wild winds 
That blow throughout thought's universe, 

Whose unseen power nothing binds — 
Systems and empires they reverse ; 

Yet one may long these wild winds sow 

Before the whirlwind 'gins to blow. 

" My words are forth — but even without 

My humble momentary aid, 
An autumn hangs above the sprout 

From which our bitter cup is made; — 
But we may not evade the draught — 
'Tis mixed, 'tis here, and must be quaffed." 

His musings' stream why follow more? 

Its current and its course are seen. 
Strange might it seem that on this shore, 

With ruin them and life between, 
Edmond could thus control his brain 
Unquelled, unparalyzed by pain. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 113 

Yet oh, remember that this thought 
, Of doom was not then new, but long 
Had been in all their feelings wrought; 

Their memories, too, a motley throng, 
Kept back the vultures of despair, 
Though close they hovered in the air. 

That rainbow formed by human tears, 

Fair Hope, though faded, tinged their sky; — 

Their beauty, strength, their youthful years, 
All daunted stern reality ; — 

The habit strong of living made 

Death not a substance, but a shade. 



III. 



They saw the sun set red and round. 
With rayless disk and stifled beam ; 

A cloudy belt, by evening browned, 
A giant Saturn made him seem — 



4 



A FEATHER FROM 

In vain he lingers there, for day 

Hath passed him 'midst the vapors gray. 

His rim had scarcely disappeared, 
When opposite his sinking place, 

As broad, and round, and red, and bleared, 
The moon rose, with distorted face ; 

It seemed the sun beneath the sea 

Had passed and risen suddenly. 

As sank the smothered Western rays, 
And as the lightless moon arose, 

They felt a creeping dull amaze, 
A lethargy without repose. 

As far removed from sudden grief 

As from the sigh of blessed relief. 

A heavy hand seemed on them laid — 
They fain would rise, but could not try; 



THE WORLD'S WING. 115 

Though they had moved not, something made 

Them stiller seem, even to the eye — 
For know there are two kinds of still. 
One with, and one without a will. 



The selvage of their thoughts was gone ; 

These ravelled off in tangled shreds 
Of ill-assorted colors wan — 

Faint fancies, memories, hopes, and dreads, 
They fell unheeded one by one, 
From the mind's fabric all undone. 



Oft had they felt the same before ; 

And anywhere but here, perchance, 
A bird, a voice, an opening door. 

Had snapped this life-absorbing trance. 
And given them time again to wait. 
And ponder deeply o'er their fate. 



Il6 A FEATHER FROM 

But here, the unvaried sands around, 
The dim pall of the parted day, 

But most, that deep, full, single sound, 
Kept outer influence at bay — 

Why did they trust themselves alone 

Beside that fatal monotone ? 

Death's coming steps where'er they fall, 
Upon the dull, sound-beaten coast, 

Or echoing from the dungeon wall 
Of one whose hold on time is lost. 

Cause but one feeling as they near, 

A numbness scarcely mixed with fear. 

The very lightness of his tread 

Pervades the ear and numbs the sense ; 

A helplessness to wake to dread, 
A dull absorption scarce suspense. 

The fascination of despair, 

Enwrap the mind and hold it there. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 

Unlike bis sudden presence when, 

At moments when all hearts are glad, 

He bursts into the sight of men, 
And drives them in an instant mad, 

These footsteps faint of speed unknown 

Turn all except the ear to stone. 



IV. 



The horses of their fate stood still — 
Their journey ended with the sands. 

They showed no spirit, life, or will, 

While airy things with viewless hands 

Unharnessed them ; at close of day, 

They led them silently away. 

They dreamed no longer of return — 
The coursers of their fate were gone, 

Led off by forms with faces stern. 
Behold them sitting there alone. 



117 



Il8 A FEATHER FROM 

Beside the empty phantom wain 
Their souls shall never mount again. 



The red lights of the distant town 
Gleam in a faint and broken line ; 

The moon, now risen high, pours down 
Her bluish silver 'midst the brine. 

And lights each sparkling flock of foam 

That leaps from out its boundless home. 

Upon the shore their shadows cling, 
And though the moon they must obey, 

Who holds them there, stretch lingering 
Towards the far inviting ray. 

As if they longed away to creep 

From those two forms beside the deep. 

And as they move, their shades draw near, 
And seem in eager whispering 



THE WORLD'S WING, 119 

To dwell upon some secret fear — 

To life can even a shadow cline ? 
They seem with wordless lips to say, 
'* Must we, too, follow in the spray ?" 



It might be but a whiter wave, 

Or moonbeam's more ethereal glance, 

A heavier fall, or higher lave — 

A sudden something broke their trance, 

And gave them power to feel and see 

The deadly, near reality. 



His features sharpened, and his face 

Grew waxen, while a troubled look 
Crept 'neath its stillness — in his place 

He upright sat ; but Helen shook. 
And bent low with a shuddering moan- 
Each felt, one instant, all alone. 



I20 A FEATHER FROM 

Through her closed fingers oozed her tears, 
A crystalline, condensed despair, 

Like the clear life-blood which appears 
On wounded flowers' stems ; as Care 

They gather slow on each pale hand, 

Then dot with deeper gray the sand. 

O essence of unmingled pain ! 

O spirit of pure agony 
Taking a woman's form ! in vain 

Upon the sands thy salt tears lie — 
So used the sands through endless years 
To ocean's Salter, painless tears. 

How narrow, faint, o'ergrown with weeds. 
The paths of thoughts which lives control ! 

How humble, plain, and weak the reeds 
Which make the music of the soul ! 

The cold breeze on her wet hands dim 

Called back her bein^- all to him. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 121 

One thought absorbed her — he, her joy ! — 
Upon her breast his head was strained — 

'* Oh waves, harm not my darhng boy !" 
Convulsive, mingling kisses rained 

Upon his forehead, lips, and eyes — 

With each mad kiss a life-hope dies. 

Oft had he striven to make her show 
The fulness of the love she bore — 

He knew it, but ne'er saw till now, 
Upon this hope-abandoned shore — 

Man ne'er receives a longed-for treasure 

Till Time has ta'en its coffin's measure. 

A look of triumph and of power, 
The old, old look of childish days. 

Flashed forth in this extremest hour 
With sudden flare and torch-like blaze ; 

The moonlit smile his lips did wear, 

Was drear, yet more than mortal fair. 
II 



22 A FEATHER FROM 

And slowly down the beach they move, 
Locked in a clinging, warm embrace, 

While with a look of speechless love 
She gazes up into his face — 

Her life is in her eyes, — and they 

Have not one glance for sea or spray. 

Still down the shelving beach they glide 
Amidst wild wat'ry voices — hark ! 

The ever-beckoning ebbing tide, 

With its harsh whisper in the dark — 

His gaze is far across the sea, 

Perchance into Futurity. 

They follow the receding wave. 
As if the ocean were their home. 

Till now their waists the waters lave, 

And round them whirls the chilly foam ; 

But still her eyes are on his face. 

Her soul's last, only resting-place. 



THE WORLD'S WING. 123 

A ligbt cloud blurs the patient moon, — 
' Patient from her eternity — 
Their forms are water-mingled — soon 

They 7//?/.?/ appear — there ! foam-wrapped, see 
An object dark ! 'twas but a wave — 
How horribly the waters rave ! 



This cloud, oh, will it never pass ! 

A human voice ! or was't the ocean ? 
Ah, yes, yon moveless face of glass 

Glides forth with slow unhastened motion, 
And lights the wind-indented plain — 
The sea and sands for aye remain. 



The play is o'er — the actors, where are they ? 
The world's vast theatre grows grim and gray. 



124 ^ FEATHER FROM THE WORLD'S WING. 

No life seems near, save where a glimmer sheens 
On the weird Hercules who shifts the scenes — 
To Time I turn, with a bewildered eye, 
And whisper to the spectre, Plmiditc I 



THE END. 



/ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



015 762 524 A ^ 



